


greyscale dawn

by viscountfrancisbacon



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Vague implications of child abuse, because. you know. MTs, fluff with just the barest hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscountfrancisbacon/pseuds/viscountfrancisbacon
Summary: the crown prince of lucis finds a baby in imperial custody during the great war. he tries to balance morality and not getting attached, but, well - we already knew that regis has a soft heart for children he's fond of who are doomed by forces beyond their control. what else was he supposed to do?





	greyscale dawn

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, this was supposed to be my take on the accidental baby acquisition trope because i thought it'd be killer with baby prompto getting rescued from the empire but it went in a direction i was not anticipating, which is that in this universe now instead of a best friend noctis gets a decade-older big brother who loves him even if they technically aren't supposed to be related. that's a fair trade, right? couldn't write quite the fic i wanted but i got something pretty cool in return and so do all of you.
> 
> all credit to buffpidgey, though, who REALLY fucking liked this AU and almost got me to write more because there's definitely depths to be plumed but alas for her, i got way too distracted before i could actually do anything about any of the cool ideas we bounced around for like a day. listen i've started like, a dozen fics this month alone, i can't stop this momentum i just gotta ride the flow. still, thanks for everything my best dude!

The Great War is going poorly, for Lucis – the strength of a guerrilla military and the handful of people entrusted with the royal magic are proving no match for the mass-produced legions newly deployed by the Empire. They are being driven back, stretched thin, until everyone knows it is only a matter of time before something has to give.

So when the prince and his retinue run across an imperial convoy – the Empire has not quite shifted all their logistics to the air yet, not with bases across nearly every region of the Lucian continent to run – they don’t hesitate to strike and strike hard. The security detail is cut down, the armored trucks pried open and inspected.

“Tch. It’s just that biomechancial nightmare bullshit the Empire loves so much,” Cid pronounces with disgust. “We couldn’t raid a shipment from any of the fun divisions in imperial R&D?”

“Define fun,” Weskham says, in a tone that delicately implies both the rhetorical nature of the question and Weskham’s dubiousness that such a division exists.

“Y’know. Robots or something, fancy guns, maybe a nice prototype MA—”

Further up the line of hastily parked armored trucks there erupts the unmistakable sound of Clarus turning the air blue. The two of them hurry over, to where young Cor is dutifullyguarding the open door of a truck with the slightly constipated expression of someone dying with unanswered curiosity.Unburdened by such steadfast devotion to duty, the two of them hop into the truck without delay.

Cid contributes some foul language of his own, under his breath,and turns to Weskham. “The fuck did I tell ya? Biomechancial nightmare bullshit.”

“Cid!” Weskham snaps, low and horrified. There is an insulated tank dominating the trailer, filled with some sort of viscous fluid and – “That’s a _baby_.”

“ Yes,”  Regis says,  slow ly.  He stands before the tank,  backlit by  the glow of instruments and monitors,  arms folded  severely behind his back. “ It is.”

 

And indeed, when they ever so carefully decant him, the baby seems to be just that – a human infant, soft and tiny and helpless, nothing unusual about him at all. And if there is, well, they would’ve stripped the computers of their hard drives anyway. The drives go in the Regalia’s trunk, some rags and an old soft throw blanket are retrieved, and soon enough they’re back on the road with strict instructions to Clarus to drive like the spirit of a little old lady is possessing him.

“We’re taking him to Taelpar first? That’s got the nearest clinic,” Clarus asks his prince. Unusually he has to twist around to do it, prompting a round of dirty looks for taking his eyes off the road – Regis usually gets shotgun if he isn’t driving, but for once he slid into the backseat, and Weskham has taken it instead. Cor is behind Clarus and Regis is behind Weskham, leaving Cid in the middle with their new addition.

“Of course,” Regis says. He cranes his head to look over at the baby, who silently stares back. “Does he seem – abnormally quiet, to you? I was led to expect that infants are generally much louder.”

He looks to Cid, their resident expert as the only one with a child of his own. Cid, faintly exasperated, shrugs. “Eh – maybe? We’ve barely had him for an hour, Reggie. Though I can’t imagine being grown in a vat will leave ya anything _but_ abnormal.”

Regis’s face twists. “Cid. We don’t know – we’ve no idea what’s been done to the child.” He folds his arms, still looking at the child whose impassive but focused attention has been caught by Cid experimentally waggling his fingers over him like some kind of macabre mobile.

“He cried when we took him out of the tank. And before we put the top up on the Regalia, because of the breeze.” Cor points out matter of factly, still stiff when he has to address the prince for anything other than a fight or a threat. “He’s responding to basic stimuli at least, Your Highness.”

“And when he does start wailing again, _you_ can respond to basic stimuli and deal with it,” Cid says firmly. Regis raises an eyebrow at him, somehow projecting an air of genteel doubt even in the middle of a car in the wilderness discussing childcare. “Y’know, to get some experience.”

 

The doctor they find proclaims him physically healthy but expresses some concerns about – well, about basically everything else. Regis turns his princely charms – and royal authority – up to eleven to convince the staff to let him walk out of there with the baby, and when they leave he immediately turns to Clarus and says,

“Mari. She’s still holding the line in Leide with the main force, isn’t she?”

Clarus, looking somewhat relieved, nods. “She is, though – she’s due for leave soon.”

“Precisely my thought, Clarus.”

 

It’s a long drive from Taelpar to the Weaverwilds outside of Keycatrich where the latest intel has the current location of the Lucian commanders – a long and stressful drive, balancing equally powerful needs to drive cautiously (they couldn’t fit a car seat suitable for a baby in the Regalia even if they had room for one), to avoid ambush or capture (now more than ever, they can’t end up savaged by daemons or in imperial custody), to simply scare up enough funds for gas and food and now additional, costly supplies (diapers, it turns out, are more expensive than anyone but Cid thought).

Though it helps that there’s five of them. During the day there’s always someone who can take the child and hunker down with him during a fight, or someone to stay back at camp or in town to look after him. At night he gets passed around with the watch shifts – which they maintain even when they’re sleeping in a hotel, because. Well. There’s still a war going on, after all, and it’s cheaper if they can fit into a room with only two beds.

Cid jokes that holding him all the time will wear out their arms. Cor looks offended at the implication that the weight of a baby could exhaust him. None of them stop, though, because – they don’t know how long he spent in that tank. And he seems to like it, cries if he’s left alone for too long, gets more animated the more they hold and talk to him. Or perhaps they do it because he starts reaching out for them with his tiny, pudgy arms whenever they put him down.

 

The Crownsguard camp they’re looking for is still where they know it should be, thankfully. Regis flags someone down as soon as they arrive to confirm this, then politely brushes past the agent’s respectful greetings by saying he really must go meet with the commander at once. It’s not entirely a white lie, because all of them can see the agent’s eyes go comically wide when he spots the child and none of them particularly want to still be around when the gossip starts flying.

The commander meets them in her tent, a serious looking woman with neat dark hair and a desert variant of Crownsguard fatigues. The most reaction they get out of her is a look of relief for them, and a raised eyebrow for the baby. Regis quickly explains the basics of the situation and what he means to ask of her.

“You know,” she says, eschewing all other greetings except a bow for the prince, “when Clary asked permission to court me I _assumed_ it would be him giving me a child, not His Highness.”

There’s an outburst of laughter and dismay in equal measure. Regis flushes, but underneath the hand on his mouth he’s smiling. “Lady Mari, I assure you I don’t mean to intrude on your suit with my Shield.”

Lady Marigold Adamantine, someday to be Amicitia neè Adamantine, nods solemnly. She goes over to Clarus and briefly lays a hand on his arm. “It’s good to see you well,” she says quietly, and then she goes to Cor to inspect the baby, who stares up at her and makes wordless baby noises from his arms. Marigold leans in, arms behind her back, and looks him over carefully before glancing back at Regis.

“It is unorthodox, but I can certainly escort him home for you, Prince Regis. I’m due back in the Crown City soon anyway, and with direct orders from you even the King cannot complain overly much if I leave now. May I presume you wish him to remain my responsibility when I arrive? I imagine Intelligence and the scientists will be quite eager to pour over the records you’ve recovered.”

Regis nods, brow furrowed. “Thank you, Lady Mari, I would be most grateful. He cannot stay here or with us, of course, but I fear those at the Citadel may become… overly eager, in their rush to gain an advantage for Lucis. Someone has to be concerned for the child’s welfare first of all.” He pauses. “I know this is a poor reward for your work keeping the Leiden theater stable, so please – consider it a favor.”

Marigold inclines her head in acknowledgment, and in thanks. “You do me honor, Your Highness. Truly, I must credit the King’s magic above myself – it has been instrumental even in my hands.”

Cid snorts. “Instruments ain’t shit without someone on the other end of them. Women who can deflect a Maniple’s missile barrage without a scratch got no excuse to be humble.”

“Nevertheless,” Marigold says. She straightens and looks around at all of them, including the child who clutches Cor’s collar in his tiny tight-fisted grip and has been shifted to dribble over his shoulder. “You are, of course, more than welcome to stay for as long as you wish – at least until I set out.”

 

It takes Marigold four days to transfer command to another Crownsguard officer and prepare for the trip home. On the first evening, after the usual motions of dinner with her and a selection of her agents, Regis discretely arranges for time at the comms station making a secure call to the Citadel. Aulea is pleasantly surprised – as he had hoped – and very generously willing to consider his tentative idea – as he had scarcely dared hope she might.

“Well, I’ll have time to think it over while Mari travels – with an infant in tow, my goodness – and then I can see him for myself.”

“Thank you, Aulea. You have set my heart at ease, as always.”

His fiance clicks her tongue, teasingly. “So stuffy, my Lord. Anyway – you really needn’t worry about the child. I daresay I’ve most of the Councilors well in hand, and compared to them dealing with a tired Mari and a baby who used to be an imperial test subject is no hardship. You need only focus on the war, so that when Mari’s back to going stir crazy there will still be an army left for her to protect.”

Regis grins, hopeful and homesick. “For that alone, I will do my utmost.”

 

The Great War goes poorly for Lucis. They are driven back, stretched thin, until the dream of a rekindled Accordan alliance goes unfulfilled and the Crownsguard are pulled back to defend Insomnia and the Wall, too, is pulled back to cover the Crown City and the Crown City alone. Before that, Weskham is injured and leaves. After that, Keycatrich falls. After that, Cid reaches his breaking point and breaks ties with the royal family entirely, cutting contact and vanishing into the chaos of the outer kingdom.

When his father recalls him, Regis goes home. He sees his father again, his fiance, his friends, all the people he knows and cares for who weren’t living out of a car with him. And he sees the child again – Prompto, he is now, because none of them had dared show so much attachment as to name the boy. He goes home, and he sees Prompto again, and these two things seem to fit together quite naturally to him. So again he consults Aulea – and then they speak to Marigold and Clarus, just in case – and they come to a satisfactory agreement.

Prompto cannot technically be their son, cannot ever be a prince. Because of the backlash from him being so obviously of unadulterated imperial heritage, but more practically – Regis’s bloodline has ruled for two thousand years, and the Ring of the Lucii is notoriously picky and unfailingly brutal. Nothing will make him biologically theirs, and making him a prince only to pass him over for a second child is tantamount to asking for civil war. But – Regis is of age, and his father’s health is precarious (more precarious still, when he learns they plan to take in a child before he and Aulea are so much as married) so soon he will be king as well. And thus the child, who they grimly confirmed did indeed begin life in the tank he was found in, becomes Lord Prompto Argentum, the king’s ward.

 

“Please take care of my son,” Regis tells young Ignis. The two boys shake hands, Ignis solemn but still smiling shyly when Noctis beams at him.

“It’s an honor to have you in our household, thank you for your service,” Noctis says in a rush, childishly determined to plow through the tedium of ceremony. Then before he even lets go of the older boy he’s bouncing on his heels and turning hopefully towards his father.

“Daddy, can I show him around? Can we go?”

Regis smiles and sets an indulgent hand on his son’s small, dark head. “You should ask Ignis that, but if he wishes to it’s certainly no problem.”

Noctis turns back around and Ignis nods quickly. “That would be wonderful, thank you Your Highness.”

Then they’re off, Ignis only barely managing to bob a quick bow and murmur, “Your Majesty,” as the prince pulls him along by the hand. Noctis takes great pleasure in showing off his rooms, Ignis’s new rooms, the playrooms and the garden and his favorite secluded courtyard with the koi pond. Then he seems to remember something and grabs Ignis’s hand anew.

“I haven’t introduced you to Prompto! You wanna go see him? He lives in the same wing we do, he’s just on the other side.”

Ignis  blinks placidly. “ Ah – I’ ve met Lord Prompto before,  but it would be nice to  be reintroduced.”  A nd then  they take off,  Ignis once again  trying to keep up  with the younger boy’s enthusiasm – and the awkwardness of being pulled around by someone shorter than him.  Noctis shows him Prompto’s  rooms  –  not too different from theirs, a lot of big windows and old fashioned stone filled with the accouterment of daily life, though  unlike theirs it looks like  he  was probably allowed a  say in the decor ating – as they’re searching  for him, until  a maid tells him he’s  in his darkroom.

“ Oh,” Ignis says,  turning to Noctis. “ He’s  an artist, isn’t he? A photographer.  I’ve seen some of his work on display in the Citadel.”

Noctis nods,  reaching out to knock on a nondescript door with a sign warning  about light exposure. “ Yeah,  h e  says it’s just a hobby  but he really likes it, and Dad says  he’s getting good so he had them put up some of his stuff.”  He knocks on the door again and cracks it open, sticking his face into the glowing slit of red light  as if to keep the light from the hallway spilling in. “ Prompto,  Ignis is here! He came today  and he wants to say hi.”

From inside the darkroom a muffled voice, lower in pitch, goes, “ Ah, shoot. It’s that time already?  I’m so sorry buddy, I totally forgot. Gimme a second.”

Noctis rocks a little on his feet and stays  where he is , leaving Ignis loitering awkwardly over his shoulder. “ It’s fine,  everything went good.  Ignis is nice.”

Then they backpeddle as the door opens a little more and Prompto slides through, shutting it behind him. The king’s ward is the polar opposite of the prince – older and taller, freckled and fair haired. But his outfit is as deliberately casual as Noctis’, and he ruffles the prince’s hair with an easy affection and a warm smile. Then he turns his attention to Ignis and Ignis hastily extends a hand.

“ Ignis Scientia,  my Lord.  I will be living in the Citadel from now on  and attending to His Highness. It’s a pleasure to  see you aga i n. ”

Prompto’ s smile never wavers, and his hand is  large and faintly calloused  around Ignis’s. “ Yeah, I heard about that,” he says, and Ignis flushes just barely. “ We’re probably gonna be seeing a lot of each other from now on, though, so just Prompto is fine.”  He  spreads his hands with a shrug . “ I mean heck, you’re a Scientia,  and your uncle’s heir, so technically I think  _ you _ outrank  _ me _ .  If anything I should be calling you Your Grace.”

Ignis flushes harder. “ Oh, no, I could never.  Ignis is fine.”

Prompto nods. “ Alright then.”  He  looks at Noctis. “Did you just come to say hi?  You could probably give him a tour or something.”

“ I am.”

He grins and turns to Ignis. “ Cool. You guys can come see my darkroom if you wanna.  I usually go digital, but I’ve been working with some old school  polaroids lately  and some of them are coming out  totally killer.  You wanna see?”

“ Yeah,” Noctis says excitedly as Ignis opens his mouth.  Prompto raises an eyebrow at him and the prince hastily turns to Ignis. “ I mean, if you wanna.”

Ignis glances up at the  older boy – a teenager,  a full decade older than the prince and his brother in practically everything but  blood and name.  Prompto returns his look with  that same cheery smile,  seemingly earnestly happy about showing a pair of kids  his photo s .  Ignis shyly smiles back at him.

“ I do,”  he says,  and Noctis grabs his hand to pull him into the darkroom,  Prompto following behind  with a hand on his shoulder.


End file.
